


when i consider how my light is spent

by angelkat



Series: The Wee Compendium of Sweet Ginger [11]
Category: The Adventures of Puss in Boots (Cartoon)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Puss Has Issues, Sightless (May 2019 Prompt), Sweet Ginger, i wrote this for myself but y'all can read too if you want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23438122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelkat/pseuds/angelkat
Summary: One day in San Lorenzo, Puss wakes up blind. His friends try to help him through the crisis, but he must first accept that it's okay for him to need them, too.
Relationships: Artephius/The Duchess, Dulcinea & Kid Pickles, Dulcinea & Señora Zapata, Puss in Boots & Kid Pickles, Puss in Boots & Pajuna, Puss in Boots/Dulcinea, Taranis & Toutatis
Series: The Wee Compendium of Sweet Ginger [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571299
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. blacker than night

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...this particular story has been sitting in my laptop for a year now, and it's only thanks to the quarantine that I found the time to look at it again, and maybe even finish it.

He’d had to wake up for three times before he ultimately found out that something was wrong.

The first time, he woke up because of the cold. There was also this sharp but oddly pleasant scent in the air that pierced his senses awake, though his mind was too foggy with sleep to identify what the scent even was and why it was so…tart. Groggily, he slightly opened his eyes. But when he did, all he could glimpse was darkness. He was quick to dismiss it, though, reasonably—innocently—assuming that it must be sometime in the middle of the night or very early before the dawn. He settled on simply burying himself further into his pillow, snatching back a thread of what he’d been dreaming about (something of swords, heroism, and rescuing) before it ultimately vanished out of his reach like a balloon to the sky. He pulled his blanket tighter around himself and felt better, comforted by the security of having something wrapped around him. Deserts could be searingly hot, but come nighttime and it was the absolute _contrast_ ; that was why San Lorenzans kept thick, fluffy blankets, something he could be no more grateful for tonight.

Because tonight, it was…a different kind of cold. It had a certain crisp to it, soft rather than sharp, comfortable rather than freezing. He recognized dully that the scent in the air was the tang of petrichor, and the pleasant comfortable cold was perhaps the misty aftermath of earlier afternoon’s storm. He’d already flitted back into his dreams before he could complete his half-formed thoughts.

The second time was when he happened to be lying on his stomach, slightly drooling, his blanket tangled between his legs and the half of it spilling to the floor. The children’s laughter had woken him up. The sound carried through the air and, muffled by the wooden walls of his room, reached his ears as distant, muffled fits of joy—Esme’s giggle made a particular twinkling sound that made him chuckle. It made him assume that it must be early morning, so he made a point to burrow himself further into his pillow, decidedly not opening his eyes thinking that the sunlight pouring through his window would chase the sleep gods away. He told himself he’d get up a little later. He smiled vaguely to himself when he caught Vina’s distant “Did you know that Puss promised to play dodgeball with us once the rain let up?” and he mumbled a little, “…maybe later, children…I am…still…aslee…” before he drifted back into his much needed dose of sleep.

The third time, he lied wide awake on his back, eyes facing the ceiling, blanket now completely banished to the floor.

The third time, he lied _wide awake_ , eyes fully opened, and facing the ceiling.

And all he could see was black.

He numbly thought that maybe he’d just woken up in the middle of the night again. But that completely contradicted the fact that he could feel the heat on his face—the sun must be out shining brightly through his window. An anxious part of his brain idly dreaded that this should probably be a cause for panic. But then there was also the larger part of it that tugged at him, pulled at him, urging him to come sink down into blissful oblivion once again, and he would’ve given in if he didn’t already feel fully rested and alert, sensations filtering in through his brain, information firing through every nerve of his body a thousand times a second—the scent of food downstairs, the distant laughter of the town below, the slight heat simmering in the air, the utter blackness of his surroundings—

He numbly thought, again, that maybe he’d just woken up in the middle of the night. Again.

Only…

Only that didn’t make any sense.

The air smelled faintly of paella, and Puss knew that it must be some time around lunch.

The heat was making him sweat through his feet, which _never_ happened to him at night unless he was too tired to slip out of his boots and simply plopped onto his bed with all his leather still attached to his body.

And the fiesta-worthy _noise_ outside. Señora Zapata would be having a murderous fit if she found out the kids had snuck out of their beds in the middle of the pitch black night to play dodgeball, made all too conspicuous by their wild howls of laughter, pleased peals of squeals, and the occasional excited bursts of “You’re it! You’re _it!!_ ”

No. It definitely was notin the middle of the night. And even if it were— _ha_. _Felina._ He would be bursting out into laughter if he wasn’t currently desperately trying to hang on to the last ribbons of reason lest he fell into the void of madness—because why else would he be trying to convince himself that the only reason he couldn’t see was because it was the middle of the night, unless he was utterly desperate? It’s not like people went blind when it was night, because even the night, in all its darkness, wasn’t _completely_ black. It had a certain beauty to it, awash as it is by the faint celestial light of the moon and stars. This…this was far worse than darkness. Far worse than the night. It was twisted and ugly. This was blackness. This…

He didn’t know what to think.

He lifted a paw from his side and brought it before his face. He waved it in front of himself, up down, up down, wiggled his fingers, blinked his eyes, moved it again, grew numb with horror every passing second as he dumbly continued waving his paw in front of his face for the next five minutes. Or an hour. He couldn’t know. It was as if some part of him expected someone to suddenly pop up in front of him and shout, “Ha! Fooled ya!” and the blindfold would come off and he would sigh in relief and the day would go on as normal, slapping backs and laughing about the look on his face just when he was about to fall for it.

No such thing happened.

He let his paw fall back to his side and was suddenly overcome with the urge to hold his skull between his paws. He swallowed the urge down and settled for gripping on the thin, rough cloth that covered his mattress.

 _This…must be a dream._ But it was not. It was not. This was real, he cannot…he cannot—everything, it was the solid colour of blackness, and he cannot—cannot even _think_ of the word, because this…this cannot be. Because this was _impossible!_ One did not just suddenly wake up one day and find out that they are suddenly, suddenly—

He pushed himself from his bed with the same determined force that he shoved his thoughts back down into the filthy cave they crawled out of. He swung his feet to meet the floor, forced himself to get up and _walk_.

He must think clearly. What happened yesterday, what might have caused this? But he couldn’t think clearly, not when his senses were being overloaded with _panic_ —

He stumbled into what he felt was his drawer and shot out a palm to steady himself against the flat of its wooden top, his brain slow in registering the sound of a vase toppling over and smashing onto the floor in pieces.

All the sensations—the sounds, the scents, the heat, the utterly suffocating blanket of blackness that smothered his vision and left him gasping for breath—filtered in too vividly through his pores and squeezed on his veins and made breathing a struggle like attempting to wrestle a bear. He blinked, he blinked, nothing nothing _nothing_. His mind drew a blank while he felt too much of everything everywhere else. He coughed out a laugh, though even to his ears it sounded like a stuttering exhale of panic. Whatever this trick is—ha. Ha ha _ha!_ Whoever—whoever, _whoever_ did this, whoever cast this curse upon him, he was not going to fall for it, or give them the satisfaction of yielding, _as if_ he’s even _going_ to _believe_ the ridiculous—the stupid—the unacceptable, impossible, utterly _outlandish_ idea, the idea that he might—that he might actually be—

He staggered over the shattered glass on bare feet. He barely acknowledged the cold hard fact that the shards were digging onto the soft pads of his paws and that he was _probably_ hurting himself and that he should _probably_ stop and drag himself back to bed, call for help, for someone, _anyone_ , but he stubbornly didn’t. He was disgusted—savagely—by the _idea_ that he, _Puss in Boots_ , needed _help_ to _stand_ , as if he was an invalid. NO. He pushed himself off the drawer and in the process thrust it out of his way and sent it tumbling over the floor, its contents spilling out and making a noise over the hollow wooden floor that would probably alarm Pajuna and the rest of the cantina from downstairs, though he barely gave a single solitary damn what they thought because this—this, what he was going through, what _was_ this, why _him_ , what did he _do_ to deserve such a brutal awakening, who did this to him, why, why did this happen, why was everything so suffocatingly black and coal and _absolutely nothing_ —

The children’s laughter suddenly rang too loudly in his ears. The simmering heat felt like it was singing his fur, and the scent of paella was suddenly too foul that he wanted to retch. His breaths were coming in too fast, too shallow. He was feeling an anger he wasn’t certain why existed as he staggered sideward where he thought the wall might be, detesting himself as his skin made contact with the wood, _hating_ the mad, ludicrous idea that he _needed_ _something_ to _support himself_ , needing a crutch like a disabled, useless, whimpering, _needy_ —

He tripped, fell forward, and would have mutilated his face if he hadn’t shot his palms out against the floor, saving himself the indignity of getting shards of glass stuck to his cheeks in addition to this… _impairment_. There, on the floor, on his knees on shattered glass, supporting himself upright with his palms, he panted, staring at nothing. It took him a few dull moments later to realize that he had tripped on his carelessly discarded boots from behind him. He felt something warm and wet and painful in his paws and on his knees, and he wondered idly if he was bleeding, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t the type to harm himself in times of crisis, so he was uncertain why he wasn’t making an effort to take care of the bleeding. Maybe because he thought that if he hurt himself badly enough, instincts of self-preservation would finally pull him out of this horror of a nightmare, that if he hurt himself enough then _maybe_ he’d _wake up_. So there he stayed for a few moments more.

Nothing happened.

He brought a paw before his face again, waved it before his wide open eyes, not knowing why he even bothered when he knew it would change nothing.

He slumped back on his heels, the realization punching him in the gut when he finally let it sink in.

How did he end up blind?


	2. flashes of white

It all began yesterday with Dulcinea and her less than pleasant experience with that afternoon’s thunderstorm.

Storms weren’t a normal occurrence in their town, no, considering the fact that they were smack dab in the middle of a desert. But storms _did_ happen in their town, for one reason. Everyone had figured that it was just another one of those sky gods' silly disagreements over what chord progression fit their song's dramatic refrain better— _again_ —but the weather had certainly gone too far for the last several hours if that was such the case. The children had all been downstairs by the fire with Dulcinea telling them a story as Zapata silently read her romance novel in the background. Everyone was pretending not to get startled by the sudden claps of thunder and flashes of lightning unhelpfully punctuating Dulcinea's storytelling every five seconds. It's been going on all day for an argument about songwriting, and gods know—except a particular pair of rock-and-roll junkies—that it's gone on long enough. They tolerated it (barely) with Dulcinea constantly assuring them that the sky gods would surely get their problems sorted soon, but alas…

Even Dulcinea's seemingly divine and limitless patience was not so limitless after all.

It happened when Dulcinea noticed that someone from her group of kids was missing. She'd panicked and ordered everyone to tear the orphanage apart, but fortunately, _fortunately_ the need for that vanished when she found him upstairs no more than five minutes later.

It was the state she found him in that wasn't so fortunate.

As soon as she'd processed the fact that she found him—her kid, her child, her brave precious _son_ , basically huddling underneath his bed and clutching his jar of pickles for dear life every time thunder split the sky, something within her, something primal and maternal, made a crude, resounding snap.

She had stormed out of the orphanage and herself became a storm within the storm, screaming. 

"ALRIGHT, THAT'S _IT_."

/

Puss would deny to the stars that he'd dozed off in the middle of trying to keep an eye on the town via the excellent vantage point provided by Pajuna's second floor balcony. He would also deny that he'd even been startled awake by the orphanage's violently flung-open doors through which emerged a cat who Miguela Andante probably could now correctly describe as a stark raving lunatic.

He sat forward from his rocking chair, wariness filling him as his grogginess slipped away.

"...Dulcinea?"

"TOO FAR." It was funny, impressive, and probably a little unsettling how her sweet, dulcet voice could ring so powerfully in this wild concert of a storm. "YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR, MISTERS, AND I WILL NO _LONGER_ STAND FOR THIS!"

It wasn't often that he had the chance to be the reasonable one between the both of them, and while he'd be too pleased to take that mantle anytime, he had to admit he disliked having to take it right _now._ Try spending the whole night staring at the ceiling, blocking out the earsplitting, earth-shattering noises of this ridiculous thunderstorm in an exercise of futility, and just see if you can try keeping your eyes peeled the next day without getting a massive migraine. The stray thought of how Dulcinea could possibly stand being around his crazy unreasonable jerk of a self all the time briefly crossed his mind before he resolved to cup his paws over his mouth and raise his voice over the storm.

"HEY! Dulcinea! Get yourself inside that orphanage, this instant! Or I shall drag you out of there myself!"

"—FRIGHTENING THE _CHILDREN?!_ YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR, MISTERS!"

He puffed his cheeks, an outward show of irritation for being so brusquely ignored. Inside, though, he let himself feel amused—a little part of him might even be silently cheering _That's my girl_. She was screaming at the skies and also probably mad in all senses of the word, but he figured this was normal behaviour. After all, he'd catch her talking to that tree she called _Treesy_ when she thought no one was looking, read bedtime stories to the _flowers_ behind Pajuna's cantina, and sentenced her own precious _Booky_ to a dinner without desert whenever the Wee Compendium offered words she thought were ill. For a moment, he considered dismissing this situation as just another one of her eccentricities when it suddenly hit him—

The sky idiots.

Right.... He pinched the fur on the bridge of his nose as upon him dawned the realization that Dulcinea's anger wasn't directed at silly insentient entities this time. Despite the unforgivable downpour they've been battering San Lorenzo with for the last fifteen hours, he supposed sympathy and sorrow for Taranis and Toutatis wouldn't be misplaced at the moment.

_"YOU HEAR ME! STOP FIGHTING AT ONCE, OR LIVE. SOMEWHERE. ELSE!"_

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, he stood on the balcony's railing as if the additional height would help him win his case. "Dulcinea, _oi!_ You will get yourself a cold if you stay down there any longer! Get inside!"

He could scarcely hear himself scream when the wind itself was the scream of an entire ocean.

How was she even _doing_ this?

"NOT _NOW_ , PUSS! I will stand here until they hear me. They can’t be _that_ oblivious!" Pure, unadulterated ire pulsated from every word, and suddenly, her defiance was not very amusing anymore. He supposed the rage was understandable, but he wouldn't stand having his friend stand in the middle of the storm trying to calm it down by screaming at it. He squinted his eyes at the black heavens, but it was almost impossible to sight anything through the thick torrent of rain. The wind was somehow blowing stronger than ever, the claps and flashes of thunder and lightning were getting really very _really_ worrying, and Dulcinea stood at the centre of it all, determined to brave this storm through as if her sheer force of will could make everything alright. As if the world's a fairytale and that whoever's writing this one particularly ridiculous story would have it end happily for any of them if she hoped hard enough.

It was times like these when he'd realize that the girl he met back at the Thieves' Market all those months ago never really changed. Which was, don’t get him wrong, a good thing.

But there were _other_ times...

" _Dulcinea_ , you are being unreasonable. Get back inside—"

"They had Kid Pickles _HIDING_ under the _BED!_ "

"I know, but—wait. _Kid Pickles?_ "

Well, that was straining it. Perhaps he won't restrain her from going at those two blockheads the next time they visit San Lorenzo for advice on guitar riffs and arpeggios.

He quickly recovered himself with a shake of his head, then raised his paws in the air as if in surrender. "Okay, alright, Dulcinea, I get your point and will help you deal with Kid Pickles, but would you now _please_ go back in the orphanage?"

He hoped she'd just oblige. First because he needed sleep, and second because he really very _really_ did not want to have to go drag her inside himself. Getting his newly-groomed, perfectly polished, and handsomely charming self drenched in this storm was currently not his idea of great fun.

“No!” She turned her face back to the sky, mindless of what was practically walls of water crashing down on her. "Not until AFTER I GIVE THEM A WORD! Taranis! Toutatis! GET YOUR BUTTS DOWN HERE!" 

Oh, for meowing out lou… But before he opened his mouth to gripe, he felt the air crackle. It was subtle, but he _felt_ the shift in the atmosphere, almost as certain as if the ground he stood on moved sideways to the right. His fur stood on end. Whether in alarm, or the strong force of the static electricity that was suddenly upon them, he didn't know, maybe both, maybe the electricity was merely his imagination, he can't be certain. He'd heard tales of people getting struck by lightning, tales of how they were burned and never felt comfort again, never walked again, never inhaled again. Then, suddenly, he saw it—a series of lightning flashes growing too close for comfort to strike San Lorenzo, and he didn't have to think twice before deciding to throw himself into action.

"Dulcinea, LOOK OUT!"

His screams were drowned out by a terrible succession of several claps of thunder. Before he knew it, he'd crashed himself hard against her and was rolling over the ground as he protectively tucked her head into the space where his neck and shoulder met and vice versa. They stopped rolling over the hard cobblestone and he ended up on top of her, his paw still on the back of her head as if that would protect her from any and all evil who dared approach his dearest friend while her protector was there.

Later, he'd marvel at the fact that the thought of his precious Corinthian leather being devastated if they got wet in this terrible storm came second to his instinct to protect, but right now they stayed still in that awkward position, Dulcinea obviously too befuddled to ask and every nerve in Puss' body stiff in anticipation of danger. When nothing occurred for the next half second and the entire plaza remained silent save for the peltering storm, he finally lifted his head—the very action that would turn out to be the greatest mistake he's going to make this week so far.

A thick, blinding current of lightning struck the ground where Dulcinea had been standing literally mere seconds ago.

While he shielded her eyes from the terrible sight by letting her bury her head further into his shoulder, Puss himself had stared at the streak of lightning in unflinching shock for several critical seconds before wind, debris, and waves of sheer electric force hurled them away from the epicenter of the strike.

The moment the crashing waves of sound caught up with the lightning, he'd already hit the floor, gonked his head, and passed out.


	3. you do not really believe that

Dulcinea tried to sort her thoughts, hoping that doing so would help calm her down. A vain attempt, apparently. It only made her fidget at the hem of the towel draped around her and pace around even more urgently.

So, so, so.

(Fidget, fidget, fidget.)

_So._

Where to begin.

San Lorenzo was dealing with multiple problems at the moment, all of them conjured by the sky gods still orchestrating the deafening storm outside Pajuna's warm cantina, and no one had any means of stopping it.

Taranis and Toutatis were yet to settle their differences, they were yet to cease tormenting the mortals living right beneath the clouds they lived on with this massive torrential storm, and they were _yet_ to heed Dulcinea's less-than-gracious suggestion that they sod off and find another patch of sky they could plague with their thunder and bickering, preferably _anywhere else_ over the Western Desert that didn’t have people living on it.

She'd considered getting on the Sphinx and flying off into the sky gods’ abode where she herself could twist their ears into oblivion, but then she remembered that Puss had sent away the winged feline with Artephius and the Duchess to chaperone their honeymoon. (Artephius had swooned and fallen into the Duchess’ arms before he lovingly pronounced those magical words, ‘I do!’ before being carried off bridal style in their new home, Owlberto.) Dulcinea had protested on the couple's behalf that it was _probably_ a tad…unconventional to have someone chaperone a newly-weds’ honeymoon, not to mention a breach of their privacy and that both were objectively _not_ children, but Puss thought it wise that Sphinx serving their transportation could actually _aid_ the ‘mood’.

‘Nothing is more romantic than watching the sunset amongst the clouds, and Sphinx is perfect for setting that up!’ he’d declared, although Dulcinea suspected that his ulterior concern there was quelling his own worry, not Artephius’ and Maldonna’s romance. Both were able wielders of magic and were _more_ than able of defending themselves, but Puss told her, in hushed tones, that he worried a fight might separate/mutilate one of them during their honeymoon (and as justification of his doubts about their ‘explosive’ marriage, he recalled that past incident with Malveola where the Duchess threw her beloved _really_ far into the air and had him plunged through a tree trunk headfirst, like a broadsword through wet wood.) It led Puss to decree that Sphinx _should_ chaperone them, what with her ability to fly and summon blue fire bolts. Sphinx can stop the Duchess from murdering Artephius and/or fly them immediately back home to San Lorenzo in case something in their honeymoon went wrong. 

Dulcinea would've been impressed that he thought of it that far, that it was very noble of him to consider every San Lorenzan's safety his responsibility, but although she couldn't disagree with his begrudgingly valid points, she wished he could have a little more faith in his friends than that. The Duchess won’t just… _mutilate_ Artephius, goodness _no_. She’s a kind person, a good friend, a most loyal and loving and caring girlfriend who would never, _ever_ hurt Artephius. 

Puss had chuckled when she said all that aloud. “You do not really believe that,” he had accused, pointing at her with his cup of leche before bringing it to his mouth and downing it altogether. And, indeed, she’d realized with a flush, she didn’t. But since she hadn’t been about to admit it to her suspicious, protective, shrewd, and criminally heroic best friend, she’d only replied to him with a scoff.

She let a fond smile grace her face at the memory of yesterday’s comforts, and she marginally slowed in her pacing. But a bang of thunder shattered her bubble almost immediately.

" _Dulcinea_. He won't stir."

She stopped pacing altogether and met Pajuna’s worried blue eyes. Pajuna's declaration was met with somber glances amongst the cantina's patrons. Puss' fur is soaked, his leather attire wetly glistened black, and the patch of wood from where he was lain was dark with the rainwater dripping from his fur. Dulcinea herself still hadn't changed out of her drenched dress despite Pajuna's insistence that she do before she caught herself a cold, because she _couldn't_ leave Puss' side.

Especially after he'd basically taken the blow from her own reckless decision to even step outside in that royally magnificent weather.

It had been almost an entire _day_ (ten minutes) since he’d passed out, and she was on the verge. She didn't know what she'd do if he wasn't...if he was... _if..._

She couldn't even bear to think the thought. He was alive, Pajuna constantly reassured her, though when she touched her paw to the side of his throat where his neck met his chin, the pulse she felt was weak and racing and stuttering. It's probably hilarious to think that out of all the formidable enemies he'd created his entire nine lives, it was Mother _Nature_ that would soon best the great, formidable, legendary Puss in Boots. Except she wasn't really in a laughing mood.

Eames fetched Pajuna a towel hanging by a peg on the wall when the Scottish highland bartender demanded for it. Pajuna in turn offered the towel to Dulcinea, making her look up from her deep thoughts and pause from her anxious fidgeting. She stared dumbly at the towel Pajuna was giving her, wondering why she was offering her another when she already had a towel draped around her.

Pajuna sighed. "Instead of pacing and fretting around, lass, you should get him dried up. Take his leather off and set them at the corner—" she pointed with the hoof not holding her broom— "eat, then change into dry clothes. I’ll get you lunch, I'll carry 'im to his room, and you can go rest. No objections," she crisply added when Dulcinea looked like she’d been about to protest. 

Dulcinea tentatively reached out for the towel Pajuna was offering. With one last grimace, she took it, then set her mind to work, first taking his boots and belt and sword and hat off before working on drying his fur. Pajuna huffed, kneeled to take their town hero's belongings, took them to the corner she was talking about, and turned back to sweeping her already immaculate floor before heading to the bar to prepare Dulcinea her lunch.

She worked upward. As she patted his feet, his legs, his paws, his arms, his chest, then his face, letting the towel absorb the moisture, Dulcinea immersed herself into her thoughts. Dulcinea wanted him to just... _wake up._ Be alright. More than anything. He had never been out this long after any sort of attack. For that matter, he'd never been _injured_ after any sort of attack, no matter how serious it was. She'd seen him engage danger, death, and destruction head on, witnessed him creep up to them until he saw the whites of their eyes, watched him challenge them with a chin proudly lifted to the air, and somewhere along the way, she'd always assumed that no matter what, he'd come out of it alright. He stumbled, he blundered, he floundered, but Puss in Boots _always_ stood back up, and came out the victor. He _always_ have. He never failed her. He's always just been...there. Like his very existence magicked everything so that it’ll all be alright.

That was why, though he's not the most responsible, or the most intelligent, or the most powerful, or the most formidable, he was always _the_ most dependable. His strength didn't lie on his sword as he was often wont to think, but his _character_. He was the first person she came to once she found out the truth about fake Sino regardless of his lack of magical expertise, not just because he was her friend or that she felt obligated to coax him back, but because she’d felt, she’d _known_ , that _he_ would make everything better. He made not only her, but the entire town, feel safe, protected, sheltered. He was their protection spell in the form of a mortal, with all the disadvantages of his mortal imperfections and all the benefits of his heart. His passion. He was invulnerable. Strong. Undefeatable. He was a beacon and was invincible. He'd fall from the sky and still live, he'd be punched and kicked and mauled and beat a thousand times and still be able to prance around like a pompous peacock making the women of San Lorenzo swoon and fall head over heels.

He'd be through hell, and still be _fine_.

Somehow, it never crossed her mind that there could actually be things out there that could potentially harm him. Or kill him. Never crossed her mind that someday, _something_ might happen.

That someday, things would just stop… _being_ alright.

She let the towel rest at the side of his head as she took his cheek with her paw. She looked at his face, and at that very moment, she expected him to open his eyes, meet hers, say "Hey," to which she'd smile, and respond "That was some crazy stunt you pulled out there," and everything would be alright, just like it always had. But even as she lingered for three more seconds (two entire minutes) holding his cheek, looking intently into his lidded eyes, there was nothing. That sense of everything being alright that she'd always taken for granted had long gone up in smoke and drifted into the air where it vanished and made it impossible for her to grasp it again. Nothing shifted in his face, not a twitch of a muscle or the flutter of an eyelash. The only thing there was were his steady, even breaths.

She inhaled, strengthened her resolve, filled her heart with optimism so that it’d saturate the blood it was pumping throughout her body. Things _would_ be alright. He's breathing, she had that, and she'd latch onto it the way she'd always latched onto Puss every time she teetered on the edge. 

"Eat, lass." Pajuna's concerned tone reached her from behind the bar where the cow had begun tending on wiping her glasses. She gestured to the plate of paella on her bar, all ready to be consumed by her costumer, before stepping out of it to approach Dulcinea and Puss. The other patrons in the cantina had long returned to their food and conversation, with only some of them sparing the cats a curious or concerned glance. "I'll take him upstairs,” Pajuna continued. “Don’t worry, he's probably just asleep. ‘Specially after what he's told me how he didn’t get any sleep last night because of the dreadful weather." She chuckled at a memory Dulcinea wasn't a part of, hoping to get the girl relaxed by her humor.

Dulcinea didn’t relax a muscle.

Pajuna softened.

"Hey,” she said, gently, resting a hoof on her feline friend’s shoulder. “You rest too. I promise…everything will be alright tomorrow morning."

/

The rain had let up the next morning, which Pajuna took as a good sign. Thank the sky gods for ceasing to unleash their childish tantrums upon the innocent town of San Lorenzo.

San Lorenzo’s most diligent barkeep woke early every morning and headed straight for her kitchen to bake bread for breakfast and chop up fresh vegetables and fish for later’s lunch. This morning started out no differently from her usual routine, except that Dulcinea barged into her cantina unusually early when the sun still hasn’t come up. Pajuna had to shoo her away by sending her on an errand to Andalusia just to get her to stop asking about Puss’ well-being, thinking that she might as well get someone else to fetch her next week’s delivery of fish and vegetables. Pajuna was relieved by the silence that followed afterwards, because the quiet routine of early morning was supposed to be hers only, and she was only too glad to continue.

After stoking the fires, she would be grabbing her broom or her damp cloth and proceed to treating her cantina with a fresh new bath like a mother would coddle a child. Soon after, a breakfast of loaves or pancakes would be ready, coffee would have been brewed, bottles of leche would’ve been filled to the brim, and San Lorenzo would awaken to a day where the sun shone bright, her usual patrons streaming through her door and setting her up for another day’s work.

So all in all, today, Pajuna had been having a relatively easy morning, serving breakfast for practically everyone in San Lorenzo with only the occasional whining from Eames that his coffee didn’t have enough dandelion-flavoured leche in it. People came, ordered, chatted, then filed out, and Pajuna religiously fulfilled her duties. The peace went undisturbed throughout the most of it.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a sound from upstairs—the sound of something fragile shattering into smithereens. It was followed by the _thud_ of something heavy, and the smattering of various objects. It jolted everyone out of their chatter, looking to the ceiling wondering if something had gone wrong, a wary silence settling over her cantina.

When Pajuna assured them that it was probably just Puss falling out of his bed again, that it was nothing to worry about, the chatter returned, albeit guardedly. Pajuna found it weird that he’d shattered something fragile (…that never happened before and the vase was too far from his bed), but she rationalized that perhaps he simply accidentally moved his bedside drawer and then sent his vase toppling over. That was probably stretching it, but that scenario _was_ slightly…plausible.

(Though she made a mental note not to make an effort replacing the decor. She honestly had no idea why she bothered with that vase when she couldn’t care less of what Puss thought of her inn’s aesthetic—he couldn’t conjure a single darned coin for a single darned drop of leche, for gods’ sake.)

There _was_ one thing she was certain of, now. Puss would be up, would soon be marching down those stairs, would be taking his seat on her bar, would be demanding breakfast with an amiable, “Buenos días, my old _friend_ Pajuna!”, and would be making a special point to press on the word ‘ _friend_.’

She considered the time. It was almost lunch, but she nonetheless prepared his cup, his glass bottle of leche, and a plate of pancakes. His usual breakfast. The glass bottle was especially reserved for him, containing four cupfuls of leche to more effectively count his unpaid tab (and _boy_ he better have a mother to run to because did he have _months_ of leche to pay for.) It wasn’t that she was vindictively seeking to drown him in his debt, as annoying as he was. It was unfortunate, but somewhere along the way, she _did_ become his friend, and she’d long made peace with the fact that she was probably never going to squeeze a single gold coin out of that tight-fisted, thickheaded, and eternally-broke feline.

But still, she counted his tab, just in case. It wouldn’t hurt if Puss suddenly decided to be generous and pay for the infernal amount of money he owed her.

She served three customers before she officially got concerned. She chanced a glance up the stairs to where Puss’ room was, absently sprinkling pepper on top of Señor Igualdemontijo’s serving of paella. People had officially begun flocking in for lunchtime, and Puss’ serving of pancakes were untouched. It wasn’t odd that he slept late, but it _was_ getting odder that he hadn’t come down yet. Especially since he’d already spent the rest of yesterday’s afternoon sleeping, and then through the rest of the night, and _then_ through the rest of today’s morning.

She couldn’t shake it off. Something was wrong.

“Um,” said Señor Igualdemontijo, cutting through her thoughts. “Pajuna?”

She snapped out of her thoughts. Mumbling a quick apology, she added a curt “Here ya go, lad,” handing him over his order before stepping out of her bar and marching upstairs. Puss had hit his head yesterday afternoon and he’d passed out because of it, though she’d ended up assessing that there were no severe damages and that he would be fine once he woke up.

“Puss?” Pajuna rapped her hoof against the wooden door, wondering if this was more serious than she originally thought. When he didn't answer, she took it upon herself to step into his room.

And when she found _blood_ , she was so taken aback that she caught herself reeling so far back to her old days when no one chided her for her vulgar ways of speech.

“...shite.”


	4. treading over shattered glass

Pajuna had to rush back down the stairs and grab her first aid supplies from where she hid them behind her counter, ignoring everyone else’s curious stares and concerned inquiries the likes of “Oi, ‘Juna…everything alright?”

Because everything definitely wasn’t alright. She’d practically had a heart attack when she found Puss on the floor on shattered glass, blood on his paws and his knees and everywhere else, his back leaning against the wall and his head lazily lolling off his shoulders and his once vivid viridian eyes having this blank, glassy sheen on them and she didn’t know, didn’t know _what_ to think except pray to the gods she’d long forgotten that the feline idiot was _okay._

She’d returned with her supplies. She’d made sure the door was locked, because no one else deserved to see what cannot be unseen. She assisted him to sit on his bed, briefly swept the glass and clutter out of the way, and began tending to his wounds. The entire time, he only silently did as she guided him to. 

It was a silence she was unsure what to do with.

Since the moment she’d met him, she’d had to learn how to deal with his irritating voice, seeing as how _she_ always came to be the victim of his novel-length chronicles. This silence was…unnerving, and she caught herself thinking that she’d gladly free him of his debt just to hear him _talk_.

He stayed silent.

There wasn’t anything major. There were only minor cuts and bruises and tiny shards that needed to be plucked off of the soft skin, especially on the pads of his paws. She burned with the desire to demand what happened, if he’d hurt himself _on purpose._ But the thought of him purposefully harming himself immediately pierced her with guilt, because she was supposed to be his _friend_ , and she would’ve been a terrible one for never noticing if Puss ever showed signs, if he ever sent signals of needing help, if he ever was the type to inflict this to himself. She wanted to tell him that she’d listen if he wanted to talk, that she was a friend and not a judge, but she opted for staying silent, working on getting the shards off by a pair of tweezers. She figured he’d talk if he wanted to talk. He _must_ talk, eventually. She rationalized that Puss in Boots was the type who liked the sound of his own voice. 

(But Pajuna didn’t _really_ know him…did she?)

“This would sting,” she eventually said, and they were the first words that ever crossed the silent air between them since she found him lying on his back against the wall on the floor. Pajuna struck that horrific image down and worked on pouring a bottle of medicine on his paw, a mixture of herbs that she herself had learned to concoct throughout her travels from a past life. Puss flinched at the healing pain of the liquid, and from the tightness of his jaw she could tell she was trying to keep in a hiss of pain.

“I know it hurts, but try to hold still,” Pajuna gently commanded, reaching for the bandages in her kit and forcing her mind to focus on the moment.

Puss was alive and well. That was what mattered.

“I _am_ holding still,” Puss grumbled, almost like a child, and looked away. Pajuna took a look at the shivering paw in her hoof and raised a brow. She debated whether she wanted to fire back one smart-ass retort at him from the fifty she had conjured in that very moment. Ultimately she sighed, resolving to silently work on wrapping the cloth around his injured paw instead.

She finished her work and reached for his other paw. The silence had become too stifling, and even she could tell that he had no intentions of talking. But she had the right to know. He can’t keep this to himself forever.

“So are you ever gonna tell me about what the _hell_ happened here?”

Silence. Pajuna thought he wasn’t ever going to answer as she plucked the last of the shards. She decided to pour her medicinal herb without warning, and this time Puss was unable to keep his hiss to himself.

Pajuna waited, a bit sorry that she had to be vindictive in gaining her answers, but if he wasn’t going to talk, then she was damn well going to make him.

“Well?”

He _had_ to talk. Had to. Not because Pajuna needed her curiosity satiated, but because it was for his own good. She knew all too well how hiding wounds made them fester into something else. Something nasty. It needed to get out into the open before it bred into thousands and ate him from inside out.

When it finally seemed to him that she wasn’t going anywhere unless he talked, he yielded.

“...I fell.”

Well wasn’t _that_ convincing.

“Uh huuuuh,” she said, making it a point to drag out the second syllable. She took a look at the scattered balls of yarn, pens and paper, various other trinkets, and the drawer which had obviously been deliberately pushed away rather than having fallen due to some sort of an accident. She dabbed a piece of cotton on his paw to dry it before proceeding to wrap it in bandages.

“What happened to your eyes,” she deadpanned next, in that tight way that brooked no space for argument.

He looked stricken.

“My eyes?” he repeated, dumbly.

“They’re glassy. Have you been, I don’t know. Crying? Anything you should tell me about?” She trained her eyes at him, his eyes which stared at nothing. “Something’s wrong, and something tells me you have no intention of telling…hey, _HEY_. Don’t look away from me, laddie. There’s no way out of this.” She had put a hoof on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

He scoffed, and moved as if to get her hoof off of himself, but Pajuna was firm, kept her hold where it was. He then turned to face her, though she found it a little weird that he directed his gaze, not on her eyes, but on something from behind her. She almost demanded that he look her in the eye like a man (as men, she’d learned, were often motivated when their masculinity was put into question), but then what he said next floored her.

“I am blind, Pajuna.”

She gaped at him. She waited for the ‘I was joking. I am fine,’ but it never came. Her mouth grappled for words, but none came to her tongue. He stretched an eerie smile for her, which may have been an attempt to tell her _There is no point in struggling. I do not wish to speak._ Then turned away. 

She pulled herself together, but this time she was the one opting for silence. She worked on his wounds until there was nothing left to work on. He’s all right, all in all…mostly. Her mind reeled. Suddenly, her perfectly normal morning was something straight out of the bowels of the Netherworld. How…how did this even happen? 

How does _anyone_ even deal with this?

“Who knows,” she said, the words too light, too careful, and she felt sick having to push every ounce of nonchalance she could muster in her tone, because talking to him was suddenly too much like balancing glass on a pencil tip and the slightest imbalance would shatter him. She finished mending him, and she took her supplies back into her kit. “That might not be permanent.”

He laughed. “ _’Might’_ being the operative word.”

His reaction jarred her. His laugh was more of a cough than a laugh and it jarred her to the bone that Puss in Boots, who she’d always known as a goofball who couldn’t be taken seriously because he never took anything seriously, could pack so much hatred and… _bitterness_ in it.

She regained her footing. “Stop that. There’s nothing magic can’t do these days.” She reminded herself that she can’t be too shocked by his snappishness. He’s going through something even she couldn’t possibly understand. What Puss needed least was a friend who took his half-hearted jabs too personally. “Artephius and the Duchess are coming back from their honeymoon soon. They’d find a way to fix that, I’m sure.”

“Oh, please.” He rolled his unseeing eyes. “Do not bother.”

“Bother with what?”

“With trying to make me feel better. It does nothing.” Puss brought his knees up to his bed and faced the other side so he couldn’t have Pajuna looking at him.

Then he said, “Begone with you now.”

She blinked, jarred again. She retraced their conversation and found that, no, he hadn’t even expressed gratefulness for her efforts, if he even _was_ grateful. She’d be content if he even made the effort to at least _fake_ it, but instead he was telling her to get lost. He was being more and more intolerable by the second, his usual light-hearted asshood beginning to border on the extreme, and she almost blurted ‘What the hell is your issue, Puss?’ if she hadn’t stopped herself and remembered that his issue was _probably_ his sight (or lack thereof). Considering his situation, she should probably let this behaviour slide.

On the other hoof…he shouldn’t think it gave him the excuse to snap at anyone who cared enough for him to come close. He’ll run out of people who cared for him otherwise, and the list was short to begin with. Not that Pajuna would ever purposefully leave Puss out in the dark and let him bleed if it came to that; he was, after all, her friend, whether either of them liked it or not. They had a relationship built mostly on unpaid debts, on her grilling him to get himself paid, on hours of tending bar while she half-listened to him chronicle his probably half-fabricated adventures for the thousandth time. It was a strange foundation for a friendship, but it was a friendship nonetheless, and one of the few she’d ever had in her lifetime that had the sort of firm stability that she could only have here in San Lorenzo, where she was just a bartender and he was just a customer. It was as stable as a friendship could get, and she was glad to share it with him.

She dearly hoped he wouldn’t test it by keeping up the idiocy he was currently showcasing.

“...Alright,” she slowly conceded, walking to the door, stepping one foot outside with her supplies with her. Ultimately, she decided to let his behaviour slide. For now. Before she left though, she added, mostly just for courtesy, “If there’s anything you need, just call. I’ll be downstairs.”

And Pajuna would later mentally note that that was probably the wrong thing to say, judging by the way he snapped his head back to look at her, which, unsettlingly enough, stared straight into her eyes, and the way he practically spat the words out of his gnashing teeth.

“I do not _need_ anything, Pajuna,” he snarled, so viciously it made her wonder if this even _was_ Puss in Boots at all, “and I am _not_ an infant to be _coddled_ , I shall get it _myself_ if I need something, andif ever I hear you again imply that I am so useless that I cannot do it myself, I shall _personally_ —”

“Whoa WHOA,” she said, stopping him just right before he ventured into the graphics that he’d later most likely regret, “slow _down_ there, Puss. I do not ken where you even _got_ the idea, but I am _not_ saying anything about you being an infant. But you _are_ blind. Like it or not, one way or another, you’re gonna need hel—”

“I DO _NOT!_ ”

His words seemed to echo for several times in the small confines of his room during the silence that followed his angry outburst. Pajuna’s jaw tightened.

“Of course you don’t.” She turned to leave.

And just as she’d been about to close the door—

“Pajuna, wait.” And Pajuna wasn’t so unforgiving that she wouldn’t do just as he requested. She paused by the door and looked back at him expectantly.

He hesitated. Eventually, he muttered a small “Thank you,” though his voice was subdued as if he’d rather spontaneously combust then and there rather than actually say them. He cleared his throat, a bandaged fist over his mouth, then turned away. “For mending me.”

She softened at that. It was as close to an apology as she could get, and she accepted it graciously, unspoken though it was. “Anytime, lad.” She thought of just leaving him be, like he wished, but then…she also thought he deserved more than what he thought he did. So once again, she offered.

“Anything else you need?” This time, she said it with more caution, bracing herself for another outburst. 

He seemed to be about to deny her offer for help, and Pajuna had been about ready to receive his rejection. But then suddenly, he blurted out something else entirely:

“Do not tell anyone.”

Pajuna was yet again floored. This morning had veered further and further away from her comfortable routine and she had long lost all hope that she could steer it back to even an illusion of normalcy.

His request, simple as it was, was too much. She didn’t hesitate from telling him so.

“Laddie. You know that’s impossible.” She said it, firm and final. “They’ll ask questions… They’re gonna _have_ to find out, and you’re gonna have to tell them sooner or later.”

“Then I would rather prefer they find out later.”

“Puss—”

“ _Pajuna_ ,” he sharply cut off. Then his voice softened. “I need time to myself. Please.”

Pajuna had been about to argue her case further, but then Eames’ panicked voice had filtered in from downstairs. “Pajuna…? Pajuna! There are thieves in town! _Thieves!_ ”

She winced. Fantastic.

Eames was still whining. “Is Puss up yet?! Get him down here QUICK!”

Pajuna looked at Puss, who had already lain himself on his bed with his back facing her and a blanket draped over him from head to toe. It was a statement, and it said _get the hell out of my room_ in gaping, bright red letters. She gritted her teeth, sighed, then stepped out of his room.

“...he’s down. _I’ll_ take care of the thieves,” she announced as she marched downstairs, the eyes of everyone on the cantina trained onto her, each and every one of them clearly befuddled that it wasn’t Puss heroically sliding down the staircase and declaring that there was no need for fear, as it always have been.

“ _What?!_ ” Eames’ pathetic squawking was getting to her. “What happened up there? We heard shouting. Is Puss okay?”

Puss’ request echoed hollowly in Pajuna’s head: _Do not tell anyone_. She’d scoff at _that_ idiocy if he wasn’t her friend and she didn’t respect what he wanted, but unfortunately she _was_ her friend, and she _did_ respect him, at least to a degree. So she just said “He needs rest” in lieu of _He needs all of you_ , handing Eames her first aid kit that looked like a toolbox to anyone else. Eames looked like he wanted to ask, so she smothered it with a curt, “ _Don’t_ disturb him,” silencing him and anyone else who wanted to ask. 

Once, upon a distant, long-forgotten time, Pajuna Michelle Cow-and-Moone was a castle’s royal spearwoman. Perhaps four lives back. She missed it, sometimes. The thrill and the danger. She even fantasized it, when nothing else could fill her head when the cantina was silent before she went to close it at night. But right now, given the chance to do so, she was none too happy having to relive it.

She charged out of her cantina, grabbing a broom on her way.


	5. i worry because i care

Andalusia was a small prospering city of trade, built around a port where galleons arrived from far off continents and brought exotic materials to the people on this deserted side of Spain.

Pearls, toys, dragon hide, fabric, thaumaturgical equipment, alchemical goods, weapons, vegetables, meat, books, jobs, the possibility of a busy and fulfilling life—one could find nearly everything in this place. It was preferable to the Thieves’ Market in that the items here weren’t, well, stolen, at least as far as everyone knew, and that it provided a more varied assortment of goods. It was a couple of hours away from San Lorenzo by horse, and a round trip cost someone a parched throat, five empty water flasks, and a whole morning of galloping through the Western Desert’s hot and sandy landscape. It was worth it to Dulcinea, who found horseback riding the perfect way to steer her thoughts away from her worries. It brought her off the caffeinic edge of thinking about Puss—who still hadn’t woken up, according to Pajuna—and thinking about him was like an unwanted addiction in that she couldn’t stop doing it through the entirety of last night, completely depriving her of her sleep. She was only too happy to carry out Pajuna’s errand to fetch her goods for the cantina. Might as well get something done in lieu of twiddling her thumbs.

She rode through the city’s busy streets, looking for a certain Señor Juan, who, according to the highland cow, was her regular supplier. She introduced herself as Pajuna’s friend when she found his store, creatively named _Juan’s Store_ , made all too conspicuous by a large wooden sign, just as Pajuna had described it. Señor Juan himself attended to her, having brightened when she dropped Pajuna’s name to one of his salesladies. He was a blabberer, she realized, probably not too surprising since he travelled to far off lands for trading purposes himself. He said that he didn’t expect Pajuna to be collecting her goods so soon, but was still all too pleased to accommodate. He knew what crates to load into her cart without being told, and he smiled too widely when Dulcinea unquestioningly paid him in full when he stated his price. She wondered idly if she’d been duped, something Señora Zapata all too often chided her about, but she gave it no further thought as she mounted her mare. She looked for a place to refill her flasks of water and then for a stable to get her mare fed and quenched, then immediately led herself home.

She crossed the desert in silence, with nothing but the sun, her shadow, her mare, and the rattling noise of her old cart rolling over the soft, uneven mounds of desert sand beneath the wheels to accompany her on her way back. She was anxious to get home and check on Puss, but now that her cart was loaded, it wasn’t possible to urge her mare to canter faster, which would be especially cruel in this hot midday heat. Her head filled with worry, her heart with forced optimism. Puss should be awake by now, and that there probably really was no reason to worry about his state, but she couldn’t help being a little antsy. If something happened to him, it would be her fault (though even if it wasn’t, she still wouldn’t be able to live with it.) If it hadn’t been storming yesterday, she wouldn’t have stepped out, he wouldn’t have had to rescue her, he wouldn’t have hit his head on the ground, he wouldn’t have ended up with a concussion—he would’ve been _fine_.

Those thoughts looped around in her mind over and over until she shorted and grew utterly sick of it. Just when she thought she’d never get herself home, she could see the mountain of sandstone where her home had hundreds of years ago been magically carved into peek triumphantly over the horizon, like the victory of a sun rising over the night. It was a glorious sight for sore eyes, hers especially, after hours out in the sun and the fire reflecting on the desert sand glaring back at her every which way she turned. The sight of home toned her exhaustion down a measurable degree and she had to sigh in relief. At that one moment, she was glad San Lorenzo wasn’t concealed as a mound of rock, that San Lorenzo was exposed to the rest of the world in all its beauty. She couldn’t wait to be back home.

As she neared, however, she spotted black-clad figures frantically running away from the town. _Thieves_ , she thought viciously, but she was also immediately awash with relief at the fact that they brought not stolen treasure but fear and panic as they fled. Which also meant…

Dulcinea nearly went boneless in the face of the realization. _Puss is okay_ , she thought, and she urged her mare to go faster in her enthusiasm. _He’s up and kicking butts again, swinging around his sword like any other day and things could go perfectly back to normal again—_

Only, her surge of joy was abruptly cut off when she arrived at the plaza and there was Pajuna, not Puss, and it was a broom, not a sword, being swung around to kick the last of the thieves’ aforementioned butts.

“Pajuna…?” she ventured, getting down from her mare. “Where’s Puss?”

“ _That’s_ what we’ve been asking her all this time!” one of the thieves answered, the rounded blade of his sword crossing with the wooden handle of Pajuna’s broom. “She keeps saying he’s out of town, though. That’s why—”

Pajuna moved to slam her broom against the back of the thief’s head before he blurted out any more critical detail. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Dulcinea dumfoundedly stared at the body. “Pajuna,” she said, carefully drawing out every syllable. She looked up to meet her friend’s wide, wild eyes.

“Why would you tell them he’s out of town?”

“Yeah!” said one of the thieves, “We just saw him close the window up that room--”

Pajuna elbowed the thug in the gut and sent him stumbling backwards, holding his stomach with a cry of pain.

“Dulcinea, I promise you. He’s okay.” But the bright unrest in Pajuna’s eyes betrayed her. “He just needs rest—”

“He would _never_ let you fight these thieves,” she said, something resembling dread blooming in her chest. Step by step, she slowly inched backwards towards the cantina, swallowing down the thickness that had risen up her throat. Something was off. Something was terribly off.

“Dulcinea, _no._ Help me deal with these morons!”

The thieves surrounding them gasped. _“Who are you calling morons?!”_

“Pajuna…” The girl recognized hidden secrets when someone was trying to hide them. “What don’t you want me to know?”

“Dulcinea—”

But Dulcinea had already run towards the cantina, leaving Pajuna to handle the rest of the thieves who refused to let their opponent out of their sight.

/

She pressed her ear against the door, her respect for someone’s privacy being the only thing holding her back from smashing the thing down to the floor into splintered smithereens. 

“Puss? Puss, it’s Dulcinea. May I come in? I just want to know you’re okay.”

The piercingly conspicuous silence from downstairs was _not_ normal. She knew everybody else was trying to listen in, and it became too obvious to her that they, too, had realized that something _was_ wrong—only they didn’t know _what_ , and their utter curiosity and worried concern damned discreet eavesdropping methods to hell.

Nothing came from the other side.

“Puss…” She really did not want to have to resort to force. But if that was what it took, then take it she shall. “If you’re not going to open this door, I will.”

For a moment, she thought he’d stubbornly remain silent, and she thought she would have no choice but to carry out her word. But then there was movement on the other side, the shuffling of fabric which she assumed was him getting the blanket off himself. She sighed in relief, and stood back from the door, readying herself to greet him like usual, maybe tackle him in a hug and say ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’ There was trudging of feet across the floor, then someone leaning against the door from the other side. She mustered up her brightest smile, bracing herself for when he flung open the door.

But instead of doors flinging open, she heard a lock being secured in place.

Her spirits fell into a splatter, and she stepped to the door, leaning against it, her paw pulling desperately on the doorknob. But it was already jammed shut.

“What…” What, what, _WHAT_ was happening? _What’s wrong? What isn’t anyone telling me?_ “Puss.” She pulled on it one more time, but of _course_ the universe being a giant lotus-eater machine designed to fulfil every possibility that something _will_ go wrong _if_ it could go wrong, it didn’t budge an inch. She pounded a fist over the wooden thing in frustration.

“ _PUSS. OPEN. THIS DOOR. THIS. INSTANT._ ”

“Please, just…leave me be, Dulcinea.”

“No, no _don’t_ give me that, don’t you _dare_. I won’t leave till I know what’s going on. What’s wrong? What can’t you tell me? _Why_ can’t you tell me?”

She was only driven further to the edge when he didn’t breathe a word.

“Puss…” Stupid sky gods above, this was all _their_ fault. “Puss. You _have_ to know, I _worry_ , because I care. This isn’t _…you.”_ She was vaguely aware of the utter silence downstairs, of having an audience and making herself an object of spectacle, but her mind was seeing through a narrowed tunnel and the only thing she could focus on Puss, this stubborn man who was so full of his unresolved self-esteem issues it all too often drove her to the wall. “You’re _obviously_ okay, you’re alive, you’re perfectly awake, but there are thieves downstairs, and you are in _there_ , hiding only _Pajuna_ knows what, and for some reason you trust her more than you trust me, and—” and she didn’t realize she ever even _felt_ that way until she heard herself say the words aloud, but she was getting off the track so she forced herself to veer right back to it.

“And…look. There are thieves outside. Pajuna’s fighting them. You, Puss in Boots, are in _there_. I just want to know why. You’re okay, at least you sound like it, but apparently you aren’t, and you don’t want to tell me. Place yourself in my boots. I’m _worried_ out of my mind. Can’t you see?”

A long, uncomfortable silence stretched tiny drops of seconds into an ocean of eternity. Then finally, she heard the lock being undone. The door opened, revealing Puss, and Dulcinea would’ve brightened if not for that weary look on his face.

“No,” he said, his voice so soft it hurt her to hear it, and she wondered what he was saying ‘ _no_ ’ for, wondered what he _meant,_ what that nonchalant shrug of his shoulder was for, what that resigned smile even _was_. 

He lifted his glassy green eyes as if to meet hers.

They didn’t.


	6. nothing you can do

Later that day, late into the afternoon, when everyone in San Lorenzo had a quiet gloom hanging above them, when the sky was that vibrant shade of orange that warned sailors of stormy nights, when the golden sunset gilded everything a sheet of lonely, translucent amber, Taranis and Toutatis, the sky gods themselves, came down from their heavenly abode to get a consult on the quality of their most-recently obtained guitar technique. It was something regarding a particularly difficult minor F key arpeggio that had too many sharps and flats for its own good, and has caused one too many arguments between the two supposedly amicable friends.

“PUSS IN BOOTS!” boomed Taranis the thunder god the moment his feet touched the town’s cobblestone plaza. “Where art thou, our consultant who thinks himself dapper when clad in leather? I, Taranis, the god of thunder, together with Toutatis, the Allfather, have once again decided to bless you mortals and your meaningless lives with our godly presence, for we are in desperate need of your musical opinion, perchance even your expertise. So reveal yourself at once, feline-god, lest you wish to see your measly abode burned to the ground by my mighty wheel that can summon formidable amounts of lightning and thunder, capable of incinerating each and every one of your loved ones to black smoking crisps that giants may misuse as charcoal. PUSS IN BOOOOOTS!”

The thunder god’s thundering boom startled the orphans. They had been playing a game of cards out in the plaza in an attempt to take their minds off of…what happened earlier, and now they stared at the pair of looming meat and muscle who called themselves gods. The five kids froze in shock and terror for a full five seconds until Esme finally squealed and dropped her royal flush of cards and hid behind Kid Pickles, who was closest to her. The tiny noise she made turned the gods’ heads towards them.

“Ah! If it isn’t the small humans and barn animals!” Taranis’ long hard face broke into a smile as he stomped towards them, each footfall shaking the ground and making the thin pair of iridescent fairy wings he had on his back tremble mightily. Considering his size and that metal wheel, the shining rainbow wings made him no less intimidating. “You are still small _and_ animals! Well met!” 

The ear-splitting boom of his voice made it sound as if he was currently in the process of declaring a country’s independence.

As he approached, the rest of the orphans instinctively imitated Esme by inching a little closer to Kid Pickles, who himself clutched his jar of pickles like a security blanket. None of them dared speak.

“Beautiful day for a concert, don’t you agree?” Taranis started conversationally while Toutatis, from behind him, was examining a specimen he’d obtained from deep inside his ear.

“What do you think _you’re_ doing here?” Kid Pickles snarled, stepping one bold foot forward, teeth gritted and eyes bright, speaking on everyone else’s behalf when no one else did.

He wasn’t a fool. The orphans of San Lorenzo, both young and old, were no fools. Earlier when Puss had slammed the door to Dulcinea’s face, and Pajuna told everyone the truth when they demanded her to tell them what in the Netherworld was wrong, Dulcinea had immediately known who to blame. These sky gods had been playing a game of hurling peals of lightning to San Lorenzo yesterday, and Puss had to save her from being hurt because of them. It was easy to connect the dots.

It was these idiots’ fault that Puss was blind.

Kid Pickles continued to glare, but it was either Taranis didn’t notice or didn’t care. “We are here for a consult, as per usual,” he boomed, casually tossing his mighty wheel into the air. “Toutatis and I—”

“Do not speak for me!” Toutatis cut off, snapping back to business upon hearing his name mentioned. Flicking away his specimen, the Allfather stomped towards them, deep blue cape billowing grandly from behind him. “Where’s the cat in shoes? I’m gonna prove this flippin’ idiot _wrong_ ,” he jabbed a finger behind Taranis’ head who then grabbed his skull with a pained _Ow!_ “when the stupid god-cat says MY version fits the refrain more perfectly!”

Taranis’ jovial face twisted in anger. “Your words are vile! Obviously _my_ version fits better, but you are far too lacking in class to understand things beyond the reaches of your limited cognition!”

“LIMITED?! Me?! _You_ can’t even think of a single rhyming line if your _life_ depended on it!” Black clouds began to ominously roll over each other just overhead their little town, and the children backed away. Kid Pickles immediately worked to usher all of them inside their shoe orphanage where they could be safe from the inevitable storm as Toutatis continued to spit both words _and_ spit at his friend. “Whoever heard of _‘Frivolous faeries flying freely through the fiendish farmer’s field’_? What kinda lame line is that?! You dare think alliteration redeems you from your flippin’ _pathological_ disability to rhyme?”

Taranis gasped, stepping back as if physically abused by the insult. “That was a reference to one of these mortals’ passable pieces of literature, you cultureless swine!”

Once everyone was safely inside, Kid Pickles peeked out the door, and shot across the plaza unnoticed as the sky gods continued to fight among themselves. He was resolved to get an adult’s help, most of whom had gathered in the cantina today to either worry about what would happen to the town now that Puss was out of commission or gossip about what had happened between him and Dulcinea. While he was confident he could stop a god from unleashing a hurricane on the town, he wouldn’t take his chances when the adults were here. He could very well use their help.

“You think too much of your crass lyrics,” Taranis continued to boom. The black clouds above were suddenly interspersed with little crackles of lightning. “‘ _You make my heart bleed, like a menstruous steed_ ’? Eeeeyeugh! Not too difficult to see why Brenda dumped you!”

Now it was Toutatis’ turn to gasp. “You’re bringing Brenda into this?! That flippin’ _DOES_ it! This friendship is DEAD! _YOU_ are dead!”

Taranis, completely unruffled by the threat, raised his wheel to the air. “Let’s see what you can do to the might of my lightning and thunder!”

Toutatis lifted his fingers, which crackled with lightning all the same. “HA! CHILD’S PLAY!”

“YOU CAN DARE!”

“OH, _DO_ I DARE!”

Wind vanes whirled, windows rattled, leaves rustled, and a giant, ominous hurricane spun a hundred miles an hour above them as one monstrous black cloud. Both gods set in position to burn each other where they stood, glaring at each other with lightning in their eyes, the rumble of thunder sharp and crackling. But just as they were about to inflict each other gratuitous pain and suffering, a small white cat who herself contained the anger of a thunderstorm nearly ripped out the doors of the cantina as she stormed towards the sky deities, Kid Pickles in tow.

“STOP THIS!” she ordered, fearlessly stomping over to them. “ _No one_ is bringing down _any_ _storm_ on San Lorenzo!”

For a moment, both gods froze, the storm above freezing in time with them. Immediately, Taranis once again broke into a smile, and the black clouds parted right after to reveal the orange sunset sky.

“ _Aaah,_ brilliant! If it isn’t Dulcinea!” He acted as if Dulcinea’s glare was a dazzling smile judging by how he composed himself back into a sickeningly jovial mood. “ _Finally_ , Toutatis and I can settle our differences. She’s his girlfriend, remember? She can bring him to us,” Taranis added in a stage-whisper for Toutatis as if he didn’t already know, who only rolled his eyes and stared at his fingernails. Taranis turned back to her, politely clearing his throat before forwarding his inquiry, even meticulously putting his palms together to complete the look. “Ah. Can you bring Puss in Boots to us? We are _really_ in urgent need of a consult.”

Dulcinea was suddenly silent in her anger. That they’d dare come back for a consult after what they did to Puss…

“You really have no idea what you’ve done,” she muttered.

Taranis exchanged a confused look with Toutatis, but Toutatis shrugged and returned to glancing at his nails. 

“That is true,” the Allfather confirmed, shrugging. 

Dulcinea’s already hardened features hardened further, utterly astonished at their blatant nonchalance.

“And you don’t…you don’t even care enough to _want_ to know what you did wrong.”

“Correct again,” affirmed the Allfather, who had now stopped feigning interest in his own nails and had put his hands on his hips as he glared her down. “Would you like us to hail a pretense of caring? We could do that.”

When Dulcinea stayed silent, Taranis the thunder god began to sense that something was wrong. “Toutatis, shh,” he whispered, though it wasn’t really a whisper, since everything that came out of his mouth boomed with the dull rumble of thunder. “I feel that the situation is not something to jest about,” he continued. Dulcinea was barely able to contain her pithy _Oh_ _WOW, congratulations for figuring that out on your own._ He was apparently smarter than his companion, which spoke volumes about the level of their intelligence. Then Taranis turned to her, his voice reverting to its normal booming volumes.

“What ails you,” he said, speaking with the mildest touch of concern, “dearest friend of our friend, who is therefore _our_ friend as well, the talking lady cat who calls herself Dulcinea of San Lorenzo?”

She was almost impressed. It was as if he really _were_ interested in her well-being.

She stretched a small stony smile. It was so cold it could have frozen hell.

“Puss is blind because of you.”

After that cutting declaration, the gods were stunned into silence. They looked at one another, looked back at Dulcinea. They opened their mouths, closed them again, because none of them seemed to remember how to speak.

Until Taranis broke the ice. “Excuse me,” he said. “ _What?_ ”

“The god-cat is _blind?_ ” Toutatis followed.

“That’s right,” Dulcinea said, nodding and pursing her lips and suddenly _smiling_ , her casualness only somehow highlighting the shape of her silent, unflinching anger—all sharp edges and broken glass, malicious as the moonlight glinting on the remaining surfaces of a knife that wasn’t stained in blood. Yet. “He can’t see,” she continued, “because your lightning _blinded him._ ”

Toutatis looked to Taranis. “If you ask me,” he said, “he’s no god-cat if a little lightning gets him down like that.”

“Do not be so harsh with your words, Toutatis,” hissed the wheel-wielding deity. “He surrendered his godliness to me--his fairy wings, his nose fire, his super friendship hi five! Never will I _ever_ forget such an act of selflessness. _Never!_ ”

The Allfather shrugged. “Sure, sure, if you say so.”

Dulcinea breathed in, closed her eyes, and seemed to be muttering numbers as if the act helped calm her down. Their lack of tact floored her. She’d just told them it was _their_ fault Puss was blind, and the half of them didn’t even bother summoning the _pretense_ of being apologetic.

When she opened her eyes, she was completely, coolly, perfectly composed.

“Well. Can. You. Heal…him?” She purposefully drew the sentence out, resolving to be _very_ careful not to snap. One painful word at a time.

Kid Pickles glanced at her in concern.

“But…” finally Taranis said, hesitantly breaking contact with his co-guitarist so he could look at Dulcinea. “We are gods of the weather, Lady Dulcinea. Even my companion, Toutatis, as the Allfather, does not specialize in mortal healing, and—”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing you can do.” This time, she didn’t even make the effort to keep from snapping. She ascertained that each word cut like a lance.

It unnerved both gods. They simultaneously took one step backward.

“Girl…” Toutatis chanced with caution, all of a sudden sounding as if he feared for his life. “Only the healing gods could have the hand to bring back lost sight. You can’t expect us to—”

“Then _go_ ,” she cut off, sauntering past them without another word. “Milady,” said Taranis, but then she’d already entered the orphanage and brought the doors down with a vicious slam.

Kid Pickles finalized the conversation by slamming the gavel down himself. “Serves you right,” he said. He bit down on a pickle and muttered as he chewed. “Stupid gods…”


End file.
